


That don't kill me

by murkya



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 06:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murkya/pseuds/murkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn goes solo and Niall goes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That don't kill me

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate reality fiction etc, not speculation. You know the drill.

The hiatus isn’t exactly a surprise. It had been coming for a while, since before the last tour at the least. They’d even talked about it, planned what they were going to do as soon as they got a break, a proper one with no charity events or interviews or award shows to turn up to.

“I’m going to lie down and never get up,” Harry had said, flopped on the tour bus floor. “They’ll have to roll me everywhere. Every mag will have a headline about it, like, “Styles reaching dizzying new lows,” and a picture of me trying to each a hamburger without dropping any lettuce or sauce on my face.”

“You get sauce on your face even when you’re sitting up,” Niall had said, and they’d all laughed, and the conversation had moved on.

So – it wasn’t a shock, having Simon sitting across from them when contract renewal came around and informing them, not unkindly, that one direction was officially _not_ going to be releasing an album this year. Niall could practically feel the relief already, everyone sinking down into their chairs a little.

What _is_ more of a shock is Simon leaning forward and saying, “of course, now work can start in earnest on Zayn’s solo album.”

They all look at Zayn. He looks tired and pale and nervous, but not surprised. Niall frowns. Harry lets out a small “Zayn?” and Niall wishes, very suddenly, that he could be anywhere but this room.

“Come on,” Louis says. “We all knew it was going to happen eventually,” and he leans around Harry to ruffle Zayn’s hair, which is less important than the way he squeezes his shoulder afterwards. Niall is still stuck on the _“in earnest”_ part.

“Yes, but-” Liam starts and cuts himself off. Everyone seems confused, like they’re not sure if they should be happy for Zayn, or maybe resentful, or even just sad for him, or if they should all just default to disliking Simon for whatever is going on, because that’s far easier.  They seem to go for the latter option, Niall bumping Zayn’s shoulder on one side and Harry resting his hand on his knee on the other.

“He still gets a break too, right?” Liam finally asks, and Niall watches as Zayn lets the air out of his lungs. He looks a little winded, but in a relieved way.

They all take home new contracts to read over and Niall calls his lawyer Andrew to make sure he’s got a copy to look through. His _lawyer_. It’s been years, but he still feels weird about it.

“I’m sorry,” Zayn says, as soon as they’re in his apartment – his is closest, and the tidiest, and they’d wanted to read over their contracts together, where they’d be able to ask each other what things meant without feeling stupid.

Niall shrugs. He still feels a little sick. The hiatus is big enough as it is, full of wide, empty time and no schedules for him to stick to, which is more scary than he’d really like to admit.  He doesn’t want to think about this too, about Zayn doing everything by himself. They all had their own friends, their families, their own time away from each other, but they’d done One Direction together. That was the point, wasn’t it? _One_ direction. Not Two-ish Or More.

“It’s going to be fine,” Liam says, sounding much more assured than the rest of them look. “Now we can finally do all those things we’ve been talking about.”

Liam had been going on and on about making a documentary, or a tv series or something, and Niall knew Harry had been politely ignoring management’s sometimes-less-than-polite requests for him to audition for some movie parts.

“Broadway, here I come,” Louis says, joking, and Niall wants to laugh, except everyone else seems _okay_ with this. They’ve all got something sorted out and he’s just.  Him. He’d never had a fancy documentary he wanted to make, or a book to write, or some crazy pipe-dream he’d been thinking about. _This_ was his pipe-dream, and now _this_ was going on pause. He flops onto Zayn’s big comfy couch and looks out the window.

“Might go back to Ireland,” he says. He mostly said it so he’d feel less like he’s scrabbling for a grip, like he’s the only one who’s lost, but after the words are out of his mouth he realises what a good idea it is. “See if mum needs a hand around the house.”

Harry frowns at him. “But that’s so far away.”

The bitterness that’s been growing in the back of his throat surges forward. Niall only just holds back a _good_. “It’s less than an hour by plane,” he says, looking up. “I’m sure you can afford it, Mr Big Shot.” Harry grins down at him. Niall has that urge again, to be in a different room.  He feels a little crazy, like he wants to hold on to them all and never let them leave this apartment, but  he also wants to be very very far away, because being around everyone will just be a reminder that they’ve all got _better_ things to do now. He doesn’t want anything to change, but he doesn’t want to be the only one feeling that way.

“Maybe,” Harry says thoughtfully. “I’d have to live on beans for a week, but I’d manage.”

 

 

***

It’s good for him, to spend time away from them. He tells himself this a lot during the first week or so. Before, the breaks had been with the knowledge they’d be back together again, and now –

None of them really know what’s coming, after this big, long break. It could be the end, really, which feels unfair, like they’d lit a firecracker only for it to fizzle out right when they were most excited.  No pop, no bang.

 He hides around the house, waiting for the paps to get sick of seeing him standing in the yard in the same grubby jumper and jeans as the day before. His mother lets him mope for a couple of days, and then she asks him to wash the dishes, and makes him hang out the clothes, and it’s nice to do little, everyday things. Sure, after he folds this load of washing, there’ll be another one, eventually, but for now he folds the last shirt and that’s _done_ , and he’s not climbing onto a bus to spend the night only managing to sleep because he’s completely exhausted or having to get on a plane or being ferried to a new interview.

“You’ll be fine, hun,” his mum says, over dinner. “It’s like graduating from high school all over again. It’s scary at first, but you’re still friends with the lads from high school, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Niall says, and doesn’t follow it with, but the world didn’t think me and my schoolmates were a weird group of five-way soul-mates, did they. And now I’m worried I’m the only one who ever believed it.  Niall wonders idly if he’s recovering from that thing, the one where you spend so much time with a person you get tricked into loving them.  Niall doesn’t _want_ it to be a trick. He just wants to feel a little more like his own person. 

 

 

***

It’s still cold most days, spring struggling to break through. Niall likes it like this, looking out from his bedroom on the second floor when it rains with the heater and tv going, or sitting in the cosy little pub round the corner.  He manages a few nights out with his mates from around town, sleepy and slow and warm with beer, shooting the shit in the dingy old booths in the corner pub. It’s simple and easy to slip into a life he could have had - but he feels like a faker, like he hasn’t earned the Friday night pint after knock-off.  He doesn’t really flash his money or anything, and all of his stuff is well loved, but every now and then someone will mention their mortgage, or the holiday they’re saving up for, or how much they aren’t looking forward to the kids’ school fees in a few years.  Niall will avoid eye contact and kick his stupidly expensive sneakers a little further under his seat.  

(And he won’t think about that either, marriage and _children_ , like he didn’t still feel like a half-adult man-child most days.)

Next morning he stands in the kitchen looking out in the garden, at the weeds and the sad half-dead shrubs and the empty patches where his mum hadn’t had the time to plant anything nice. His dad was always the gardener, and his mum was too busy these days to really do a lot of home improvement. The place had that well-worn, well-scrubbed feel, but there were still cobwebs and dust behind the big cabinets she couldn’t move herself.

Niall could probably hire a couple of workmen and have the place spick and span in no time, but he wants it to be something he’s done, something made with his own hands, to last and grow.  He spends the next day sitting in the garden with his laptop, trying to figure out the plants he should put in instead, and how to go about cleaning up what’s already there.

 

 

***

Louis calls him right around the three week mark. “So,” he says, and Niall sits down on his bed, because he knows that tone.

“A little birdy tells me that someone hasn’t signed on again,” Louis sing-songs. Niall is glad it’s Louis who’s been tasked with badgering him, because bantering with Louis makes it much less terrifying to talk about.

“I have to decide if I want to put up with your stinky face for another five years, give me some time,” Niall says, and it’s not his best, but it loosens a little of the tension anyway.

Louis, for all his extroverted behaviour, knows when to keep it quiet, and he falls silent as he waits. 

Niall doesn’t know where to start. He doesn’t want to tell Louis the whole truth, about how he’s worried he needs them the most, or that he’s trying to feel less like a sum of parts and more like a _whole_.  

“I’ve been thinking. Been talking with m’lawyer ‘bout it, and he’s started talking with management, and-”

Louis makes an impatient noise.

“If I sign on again, I wanna date,” Niall mumbles, a frozen moment before he continues, “Like, date guys.”

 His stomach swoops and hovers.

Louis is quiet. “Oh _Niall_.”

“It’s stupid, and the papers will go mental, and my lawyer says I’m nuts, but, you know. Like, I don’t want a big deal or anything, but have some options yeah? If we ever release anything again, or go on tour, I want to do it right, you know-“

Louis makes another noise. “I will personally make sure we release another ten albums, if that’s what it takes for you to get what you want,” Louis sounds so sure, and unruffled, and Niall is infinitely grateful. He feels like he might just cry.

Niall had spent a while feeling guilty about not telling them. At the start – well, at the start he’d barely known, really, just been sixteen and with fame within arm’s reach. He was hardly going to bollocks that up when he wasn’t even sure, when it didn’t _matter_. He still liked girls, anyway. And then they were recording, and he couldn’t find the time for that sort of crisis, didn’t want to ruin the dynamic, and then they were on tour, the stakes had been too high for that bullshit, and then-

Then they’d just kept on keeping on.  The fear had subsided, mostly, and Niall hadn’t really thought much about it if he could avoid it, not when there were plenty of attractive women who he was _allowed_ to like. He was mostly safe from the gossip, and no one had asked, really, and he hadn’t had to lie. No mess, no fuss.  Maybe it was time, though, to deal with what he’d been shoving under his bed. Tidy up some loose threads. He never really liked leaving things undone, and he deserved some – new, mostly unexplored – fun, right?

“Have you warned the others?” Louis says, quietly. Niall sort of assumed they all knew, by now at least.  He’d had one incredibly awkward conversation with Louis about it, once, after an anti-bullying charity appearance gone a little awry. The others weren’t exactly idiots. Hopefully he’d read it right, and it was one of those things that didn’t need discussing anymore.

“Not yet,” Niall says, picking at a thread on his duvet. “I don’t want Zayn to think I’m stealing his thunder or anything.”

Louis just says “Oh _Niall_ ,” again, and then very neatly segues into talking about his new radio gig, and Niall flops back and laughs in the right places and misses Louis _properly_. Not in a sore, angry way, where he feels needy and guilty and then guilty for the guilt, all mixed up. He just misses Louis near him, talking to him, the faces he pulls when he knows he’s made a good joke.  He tells Louis about his plans for the garden, and he doesn’t feel silly or unimportant. He just feels good, and satisfied, like the pieces are falling back together.

 

 

***

Niall digs up the old shrubs down the side of the garden. It’s finally heating up, the sun burning through the cloud cover to make him sweaty and breathless in his tee and beat-up jeans. He’s not as skinny as he used to be, more hard-earned muscle from the training regime management had put him on, as well as the softness from weeks of good sleep, good food, and a good break from said training regime. He feels healthier, probably is healthier than he’s been for months. At first doing work with his hands and his arms and his body had _hurt_ , and he’d wanted to whine at someone. Now, though, the twinge and after-print of digging reminded him of the work he’d done, of what he’d managed so far. By now, around the half-way mark of fixing up the garden, he knows how to get lost in the rhythm of it, humming along to the tinny radio. Suddenly, though, there’s a familiar voice in his backyard, someone saying a quiet “hey” that has him blinking and spinning on the spot.

It’s the radio of course- Zayn, doing an interview before the album drops. Niall stops, and stares, and forgets entirely about the camellias.

“Well, it’s different, that’s for sure,” Zayn says, and Niall assumes that the radio presenter has gone right ahead and asked the awkward questions, like _What’s it like working without the others?._ Zayn sounds guarded, and a little bit unsure, like maybe there’s someone else in the room he’s looking to for guidance. “I mean, we still see each other all the time.”

This, of course, is a lie. They manage group video chats when they can, and text in their free time, but Niall hasn’t seen all of them together in ages.

“How’re the tour plans coming along? Looking forward to having the hotel rooms all to yourself?” the woman says, and Niall winces, finally leaning the spade against the fence and sitting on the patio seats to listen.

There’s a moment of quiet static before Zayn replies. “Not exactly, I have to say. I’ve got so used to having to fight for a shower, I’m going to be completely lost when it’s all mine for the taking,” and Niall can tell he aimed for light and joking, but mostly he just sounds worried and intense, like he’s thought about the new shower arrangements a lot over the last few weeks.

 The interview is the same sort of stuff that they’d churned through for years, and it’s nice for Niall not to have to worry about his own answers, just sit and listen to Zayn talk for a bit. Before the interview ends the host announces a competition of some sort; a couple of free signed albums or something. Before Niall knows it he’s standing up and has his phone out, and then it’s ringing, and a bored woman on the other end of the line asks for his name.

“Niall Horan, love,” he says, and the noise she makes has him grinning and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

They put him through – Niall knew they would, that they couldn’t miss an opportunity like this – and he gives a casual “Hullo!”

There’s another moment of static silence, much longer than before, and then Zayn says, “N _iall_?”

“I’d love to chat,” Niall says, “but I’m calling about that album. I’ve heard nice things about it, and would quite like to win one, I think.”

Zayn laughs, a little rough and hysterical around the edges. Niall knows he hasn’t been particularly funny or anything, that it’s probably just Zayn’s surprise, but he has to walk in big circles on the patio to calm his jittery excitement anyway.

The radio presenter seems to finally recover, jumps into interview mode, and tries to ask him where he’s disappeared to. Zayn cuts in, polite but sharp, and says, “What you up to, Nialler?”

Niall looks down at himself. His shirt is grimy with sweat and dirt, and he’s got about a million bandaids on his hands for the blisters, and his shoulders are all red and patchy with sunburn. “Oh. You know. Diggin’ a hole.”

Zayn laughs again, and the radio presenter figures out a way to cut Niall out so she can finally talk to some real fans who want to win. Not, of course, that Niall isn’t keen to win the album, he reminds her right before he says bye to Zayn, who gives a gentle “see you around.”

Niall hangs up and stands there, and he wants to do some star-jumps, or maybe throw something at his fence. All the adrenalin and quick, nervous energy that had been holding him up through the phone call is suddenly trying to rush out, and his arms feel buggy, like they’re going to shake right out of his shoulders if he doesn’t do something.  He misses the stage sharply, then, the feeling of performing, of a crowd so big it’s a single entity with a noise that rolls right through him.  It’s a little shocking, if he’s honest, how much and how suddenly he wishes he was somewhere with a guitar and a mike and a stadium, for that heady rush. He digs his hole for lack of anything better to do, but part of him is still stuck there, thinking about the old concerts, the glory days. Maybe he’ll never stop missing it the same, raw and bone-deep. Maybe that’s okay.

 

 

***

Zayn calls him back a few hours later, when he’s leaning over the sink and gulping water straight from the tap. “Seriously. Seriously?”

“What’s up,” Niall says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I haven’t talked to you in ages.”

Zayn snorts. “Come back to London. Press tours are infinitely more boring when you’re alone,” he says, and it comes out casual, but Niall knows that Zayn would much rather be pretending that he was having a ball, so it must be pretty bad if he’s willing to say that much.

“What, lil Paulie not treating you right? I can rough him up a bit for you, if you’d like.”

Niall can practically hear Zayn’s scrunched up smile, the way he’d hide it behind his wrist if he’s in public and trying to keep a poker-face. “I miss you,” Zayn says quietly. “I miss _everyone_. I met Harry on set for a whole half-hour lunch the other day, and all we talked about was how bonkers we both felt without everyone around.”

This is strangely pleasing, and Niall doesn’t _want_ to brag, as such, but there’s a part of him that wants to tell Zayn that he’s been completely fine without them. It’s not entirely true, anyway. He still misses everyone dearly; it’s just less twisted and sharp. It used to be an ugly sort of missing, full of self-doubt and worry, but it feels clearer now. It feels less like dependency and more like homesickness.

“Who said I had to come to London? I’ve got this whole house right here, you know. A chef, as well,” winking at his mother as she peers at him from the lounge room. She rolls her eyes.

“I wish,” Zayn says wistfully, so quiet and raw that Niall feels a weight drop behind his chest, full of heavy sympathy – “I fuckin’ wish.”

Niall leans against the counter in his big empty kitchen. “Well. I should be dropping in to London soon. Make sure the apartment’s doing okay without me, you know.”

There’s a little explosion of static-y breath, which means Zayn is sighing. “When?”

Niall looks out his window. “Well. I should have the climbers planted within a week.”

“Oh yes,” Zayn says seriously. “I’ve heard you have to be very careful with those.”

 

 

***

 They all make it back to London for the album release. Harry barely gets to studio in time, straight from shooting, but they’re given front row seats for the late night music show Zayn’s kicking off the launch with. Niall is nervous, more sick feeling than butterflies, and Liam bumps his shoulder against Niall’s.

“He’ll do fine,” Liam says, “better than fine.” Niall tries to smile back and not look so worried for when the cameras pan to them. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Zayn; he’s brilliant. Niall still got chills sometimes, listening to him live, even after all the years. But this time Zayn was _alone_ , and management had been driving him hard, and the absolute worst possible thing would be for Zayn to be up there looking as vulnerable as he sounded on the phone.

In the end Niall had nothing to worry about: Zayn absolutely kills it.  Harry stands on his chair to give a standing ovation while Louis indulges him and attempts to drag him down, and Niall shares a look of relief with Liam. Zayn looks tired, his eyes over-bright when he turns to wave at them, but the fatigue Niall had heard over the phone wasn’t there in the wide smile he shot them, the one that he does with his whole face, looking nineteen all over again. He looks strong, lean and impossibly sharp in the simple black suit. When Zayn shakes hands with the host for all the pleasantries Niall is surprised she doesn’t jerk back with an electric shock. Or, you know, get a little flustered, at least. Even Louis, who prides himself on a certain amount of cynicism, looked a little charmed by Zayn’s humble introduction. And he’s seen Zayn in _all_ sorts of compromising positions and weird activities; he was probably responsible for most of them anyway. 

They rumble on through to his dressing room and manage, somehow, to stack all five of them on the generous lounge, in a mess of limbs and laughter and Zayn saying _no no no no_ and Liam’s got his camera out and Louis is practically strangling Zayn, sliding slowly south across the leather as Harry tries to wiggle free, and then Niall getting what he _thinks_ is Liam’s elbow to the forehead, but could have been Harry’s knee. He’s always had pointy kneecaps.

“I missed you too,” Zayn wheezes out, from somewhere closer to the floor, and Niall can’t stop _grinning_ , because this is right and good and familiar, and their bodies might be bigger and awkward and more likely to complain of strains and pulled muscles, but they still fit, they still make themselves fit together.

They end up at one of the old, dingy, low-ceilinged clubs they’d favoured years ago, before they’d moved on to classier establishments, and they spend half the time laughing at everyone else there  and the other half laughing at Harry, who got far too drunk too quickly and was doing his best to hand out K.Os on the dance floor with his flying limbs. It’s loud, and it’s grimy, and it’s unexpectedly fun, ducking out of the booth to pretend they’re drunker than they are (minus, of course, Harry, who doesn’t have to pretend) and dancing far more enthusiastically than they’d ever managed on stage.

They end up out the back in the dodgy little laneway at 3am, sweaty and hyper; Liam has his hand-held out again (“For the documentary, or tv series, I still-” “Leeeeeeeeyum, you aren’t filming my spins,” Harry interrupts, swinging back and forth on a no stopping sign) and Zayn is fumbling around in his jacket like he’s looking for cigarette, like the habit is strong enough to reach across the years.

“Who’s place next?” Louis asks, blowing kisses to Liam absent-mindedly as he digs his phone out from his back pocket. “Get-” he pauses, trying to remember their bodyguard’s name, and continues, “Get Don to call us a car?”

Don steps forward from where he’s positioned himself in the shadows and Niall tries not to jump. It was so _creepy_ how they could do that.

“Got filming tomorrow,” Harry mumbles, trying to climb on Niall’s back now, but mostly just hanging on limply and rubbing his face in Niall’s hair. Niall stumbles a little away, almost landing himself against the old, peeling wall, and has to steady Harry’s head against his shoulder. His hair is still as big and uncontrollable as ever; Niall tries and fails to spit out what had managed to get in his mouth.

“Sorry,” Zayn says. “Early night for me too. Brekkie show interview, all that,” and he smiles apologetically, apparently given up on finding the non-existent cigarette packet.

Louis sighs, but seems to understand; him and Liam drag Harry to the main road to find a cab not long after, Liam knocking Niall’s shoulder on his way and Louis ruffling his hair obnoxiously.  Zayn tucks a tip into Don’s hand, waving him off, and he shoots a quick grin at Niall where he waits, hovering at the curb, kicking at the gravel.

“Come back to mine,” Zayn says, still half-smiling, still a little tipsy, if the way he leans close and easy and natural to tug on Niall’s sleeve is any sign. 

“Pretty direct there, mate,” he says, and he can’t even stop himself from leaning forward, bopping Zayn on his nose so he scrunches it and bumping Zayn with his hip. “Alright, alright. I don’t want to wake the neighbours up or anything.”

Zayn grins goes full blown, and he bumps back against Niall but stays there, his leather jacket solid against Niall’s jumper as they walk to the street. “Right. Wouldn’t want to inconvenience them,” he says, and hails a cab like magic, and grabs Niall’s hand in his, sudden and strong and still kind of bony, and Niall is laughing and holding on tight, and shoving him over on the seat and running his left hand through his hair because Zayn still hasn’t let go of his right, and he’s wondering if he’ll ever get used to that whirlwind, rollercoaster feel he gets around Zayn times, and hoping he doesn’t.

 

 

***

Niall had tried to say that he’d sleep in the guest room – he _tried_ , really, but Zayn had snorted and said, “there’s a spare toothbrush in the cabinet,” before pushing him into the master bedroom.  Zayn kept walking down the hall, presumably to grab something from the kitchen or something, and Niall crept in, feeling like an intruder anyway.

They’d all shared beds, crammed together cosily during winters in foreign countries without their parents or girlfriends or proper mealtimes, proper bedtimes. It was easier, more comfortable, to fall asleep with a familiar body breathing besides you when it was 4am and the jetlag was sending you crazy and you were maybe more weirded out by not being able to understand anything on the telly than you’d like to admit.

But before was _different_. Before, that sort of stuff had edges. They’d push each other towards the borders, sometimes, and Niall had certainly been guilty of it –  seen how close he could lean in, how low his hands could go on Zayn’s back – but those were the sort of things that he’d gone along with because saying _“is this okay”_ would have made it realer and bigger than any of them were letting it be. He didn’t want to be the one to make it mean anything. He didn’t want to be the one to rock the boat.

But _now_.  Now it was unfair of Zayn to do this, Niall thought, considering that things had changed.  Maybe Niall would be able to be the one to say, _stop_. Or _go_. Or whatever.

He rummages around in Zayn’s wardrobe, finds a spare pair of trackies and a ratty tee to sleep in. He’s in the process of wiggling around under the duvet and kicking out the cool spots when Zayn walks in, shirtless, and raises an eyebrow at Niall.

Niall crosses his arms behind his head, licks his lips and raises his eyebrows right back. If Zayn was going to be a tease then Niall had no problem playing _that_ game, and really, he’d probably win. Unless, of course, they were both playing for keeps.

Zayn pulls a face at him as he switches off the light, dives into the bed and gets his cold hands on Niall’s sides. He manages to wail a “nooooooooooooo,” before grabbing a pillow, shoving it in Zayn’s face until he stops tickling him, just lies on his back next to Niall huffing out his quiet laugh.

“I’ve missed you,” Zayn says, in the moment of quiet, and Niall just nods, feeling small and worn thin in the bigness of the room, the darkness, the dead of night, the feeling inside of him aching to get out. When Zayn rolls closer and slings his arm over his hip he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t crack a joke and push him away, just rolls over so they can fit together properly, Zayn’s breath warm against his neck.

Niall wakes up to a big blur in his face, which he realises is also a face, grinning like a maniac. He manages a quick yelp before he’s attacked properly, Zayn digging his chin in to the sensitive spot between his neck and his shoulders, scratching Niall with his morning scruff.

“You’re awful! Disgusting!” Niall manages, pushing Zayn off like he’s nothing and swinging over to straddle him. He hadn’t really thought that through, because now Zayn is staring up at him, bright eyed and messy, his hands on his rising-falling chest.  There’s a challenge there, in how open he is, face nothing but completely content, and Niall wants to _win_. It settles something in his gut that doesn’t really leave.

Niall settles for pinching an unguarded nipple and rolling back off him with an “urgh,” stumbling to the ensuite bathroom to brush his teeth again and have a drink. “What time is it even?” he calls, and Zayn gives a lazy, “’round eleven,” sounding much closer than Niall expected.  He figures out why when Zayn steps up behind him, one hand on his hip and the other reaching over Niall’s shoulder for his toothbrush.

"I thought you had a breakfast interview," Niall says suspiciously, and Zayn just squeezes the toothpaste out before quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Morning breath, eh?” Zayn says, ignoring the question completely. He winks at Niall in the mirror, and Niall wonders if Zayn has ever managed to _not_ be completely charming. He was using a batman toothbrush. And _Still._ Niall leans down to spit, and if he manages to bump back against Zayn, well, he’s always been a little clumsy.

 

 

***

Niall manages to convince Harry to let him come visit him on set. He drops in on some other friends first, visits the recording studios and says hi, and when he finally gets to Harry’s trailer he’s got two piping hot pizzas.

“You are my favourite person in the world,” Harry says, clinging onto his back, and Niall tries to manoeuvre a slice to him over his shoulder as he nods. ‘Course he is.

“How’s filming?”

Harry shrugs, flopping into a seat and gesturing for Niall to do the same. “Eh, it has its ups and downs. It’s not so different to tv and stuff. I like getting to pretend, though,” he says, getting a faraway look, and Niall has to throw a cushion at him.

“Stop thinking about your sex scenes,” and Harry shoots him a grin, all dirty and sly. “You’re so fucking predictable.”

“They’re so grateful,” Harry says, sniffing and putting on a posh voice, “they managed to find a fresh face with no problems with nudity.”

Niall only just resists the urge to flick pepperoni at him, and mostly because it’s _good_ pepperoni. “Hard life.”

“Just wait, Nialler,” Harry says, gesturing a little wildly, “if this goes well, we’ll get a sequel. And then you can all show your bums on the silver screen, just like me.”

“What an honour,” he laughs, but the idea of filming a movie together isn’t so bad. They’ve done docos on tour and stuff, so maybe it’d be relaxing, in comparison. Harry’s trailer was certainly pretty cushy, and he got to go home every day at the end of it. Well. Most days.

“So how was your night with mister mysterious,” Harry segues awkwardly, waggling his eyebrows, and Niall tries not to let himself blush.

“Pretty nice. Lent me a fiver for the cab in the morning and everything.” He plays it light, gets Harry laughing. “As far as a walk of shame goes, it was alright.”

“Mhmmm,” Harry says, not satisfied, but he seems to know to drop the topic. Niall’s always been grateful for that; Harry knows him awfully well, but he’s merciful too. He could use all his terrible flirty powers for evil, and instead he just rubs his face against Niall’s and mumbles about introducing him to his co-stars, including “the one with the greatest arse I have ever seen in my life, man or woman. Wait until you see, you’ll want to just rest your head on it for _years_ , Nialler.”

 

 

***

Niall’s still kind of keyed up after that night with Zayn (which sounds so wrong/right/wrong in his head, which is part of the problem, isn’t it?), and he’s got the time now, the nerve to not just let it die out. The tension’s still raw and new, and a little intimidating. He goes grocery shopping and ends up using the spare key Zayn had given him to let himself into his apartment. He knows Zayn’s got another tv show to be on tonight and won’t be home until late so he times it as best as he can so he’ll have dinner ready when he walks in the door. As it is, he’s almost done when Zayn gets home:  he’s stirring his stew and dancing along to 80’s hits when he hears the front door open.

“Kitchen!” he hollers, so Zayn doesn’t think he’s got some burglar rummaging around. He belts his way through the chorus of Livin’ on a Prayer before he hears footsteps, and then a laugh, and turns, still dancing, to see Zayn leaning against the doorway, tired and grinning. Zayn’s doing that thing, that thing with his eyes and his _face_ , like Niall’s got half the milky way shining out of his arse. All he’d done was make _dinner_. Zayn didn’t have to look at him like that.

He leaves the spoon on the bench and does a big impressive spin, one where his feet scuff against the impeccable floor. He ends with his hand out for Zayn to take, trying not to feel dizzy as he sings out a terrible “Ay papi, bust a move,” and is rewarded with a remarkably unattractive snort from Zayn.

Zayn’s grin grows wider, brighter somehow, as he wiggles over a little shyly for Niall to lead him in a pirouette. Niall only just resists the urge to dip him; instead, he spins him out again towards the sink and bows. Zayn claps and hides his laugh in his hand.

“It was no big deal,” Niall says, and Zayn blinks at him, confused. He hadn’t even said anything yet.

“I, er,– I mean, thanks?” Zayn tries, followed by a quiet, “Um?” as he tried to turn the conversation right ways up in his head.  It was like he didn’t even know what an open book he was.

“I mean,” Niall says, and now he sort of wishes he hadn’t said anything, but – “Dinner. Don’t worry about it. And don’t get used to it,” he adds warningly, leaning over to smack Zayn’s hand away from where he’s about to lick the spoon.

Zayn thanks him anyway and sets the table, switches the radio to some weird ambient electronic stuff – “ya toff,” Niall mutters, only to get a pinch near his ribs – and it’s oddly comfortable, given that Niall’s still got shivery butterflies in his stomach every time Zayn blinks at him slow, or when his rests his hand at Niall’s elbow.

“Louis told me you finally signed on again,” Zayn says, not looking up from his plate, and _eurgh,_ Louis had that annoying, older brother busybodying so down pat it wasn’t funny. He’d probably let what remained of the cat out of the bag too, because if he’s going to interfere, he usually makes a job lot of it.

“Right,” Niall goes for, nice and simple, and keeps himself busy with eating while he watches for a reaction. 

Zayn does look up then, ducking his head and peering up quickly at him, all wide-eyed and raised eyebrows.

Niall shrugs and says around half-chewed potatoes, “Look, I’m sorry, man. I should have told you, alright.”

Zayn bumps a table leg and they both jump. “No – that – I mean, it’s up to you, isn’t it? It’s no big deal, I- I mean,” and then he peters out and shrugs too. It’s frustrated though, like he hadn’t got any of the words out he’d wanted to.

“I – I- what I really mean-” Zayn starts again, and Niall bumps his shins against Zayn’s.

“Seriously. I get it,” Niall says.  He thinks that maybe he’s _gotten it_ for years, half-known from way back when they still played truth or dare, before they’d just started telling each other everything in disgusting detail and doing whatever Louis told them to. Back then Zayn had still been a little hidden, a little curled in on himself, but he still didn’t know how to lie instinctively when Harry leaned against him and asked “Would you blow everyone in this group for a million quid?” and Zayn had frowned and said, “Wait, is it a million quid lump sum, or a million quid for each of you?” and Niall had fallen on Liam with laughter. _Priorities._ Right.

Zayn seems to sense that some of the tension is gone – some of the bad tension, at least, because Niall’s heart is still thumpthumpthumping a little - because he ducks his head and shoots a look at Niall before saying, “Always knew you had a thing for Beibz,” and Niall would probably hit him, or throw food at him, except it’s got that careful, careful ring to it where he knows Zayn’s thought about this whole thing too much. That floors him in a different way to everything else, and all he can do is sit and feel himself go bright red and mumble embarrassedly into his fork.

“You’re just jealous,” he manages, and Zayn giggles for longer than he probably should.

 

 

***

Niall drops by Liam’s on his way out of London. Officially, Liam and Danielle still didn’t have any marriage plans, but they’d bought the house together, and when Niall asks about all the extra empty bedrooms Liam goes bright red and stutters a bit before seeming to come to a decision. “Well. Have to be prepared, don’t you?” he goes with, matter of fact and practical, and Niall winks at Danielle where she’s set up in the adjacent study. She winks back and shoots Liam a thumbs up over her laptop screen. He shakes his head.

“She’s got another tour this summer,” Liam says, watching her absent-mindedly, “and then she’s hoping to get a long-term place with the choreography department. So she’s not travelling all over, you know?”

“Mate,” Niall says, and then everything he wants to say just disappears, too big and important to straighten out. It had been a toss-up, generally, whether Liam or Louis would be the first to start their disgustingly cute big happy family, but somehow it had been unreal, something around the corner but never really there. He claps Liam on the shoulder, leans back against the kitchen counter and looks at the ceiling.

“Jesus,” Niall says into the quiet, and Liam laughs a little, getting out a “I _know_ ,” and it’s like that disbelief they’d felt when they got number ones all over the world, except this is somehow realer,  bigger than they’d thought it would be, catching them out suddenly.

“I’m going to be the greatest godfather in the _world_ ,” Niall says, like he’s just realised, and Liam laughs.

“Nah,” he says, and Niall only has time to open his mouth in mock-protest before Liam says, “Don’t tell Harry, but you’re definitely gonna be the favourite uncle.”

Niall socks him in the arm to hide how overwhelmed he feels, big great bright waves of happiness rolling forward against his chest. Liam just had to be so _touching_ sometimes. It was enough to make someone sick, it really was, he thought, half-heartedly resisting Liam’s headlock and the noogie that inevitably followed.

 

 

***

When Niall gets back he kisses his mum on the cheek and says: “You wanna go into London?”

 He’d been thinking about it for a while, giving her a break from dealing with him and giving her a bit of a treat as well. Handbags had stopped meaning anything a few Christmases ago. He knew his mum hadn’t been in a while, hadn’t seen her sister in months, and he can see the way she pauses, considering it. “My apartment’s free, you’d have the place all to yourself.”

“I don’t know,” she says, which is practically a yes.

“Or I could always put you in a fancy hotel,” he adds, and she returns his grin before hugging him. Niall books her flight for her, makes sure she gets a nice car for the ride to and from the airport.

His mum finally leaves on Friday night, and Niall stands in the door and waves until she’s in the car. Walking back inside is – strange.  The hallway feels oddly empty, and he half expects his brother to stomp down the stairs from his bedroom, to flop down on the couch and switch on some crappy police drama. Niall picks up the remote, leaves the tv on some panel show for the company while he’s out the back making dinner. His mum had stocked the pantry and made sure there were plenty of frozen meals, like he was fifteen and left house-minding over the weekend all over again.

 

 

 ***                     

Niall is back in the yard again, looking at the lawn judgementally. It’s properly hot, these days, even humid, and while it’s no Spain, it still feels a little more cheerful and holiday-like. It was also pretty decent turf planting weather. Did he want to rip it up and start again, or give it some treatments and see how it went? Everything else was mostly done, just needed some care and attention and mulch, but the lawn was all scraggly and patchy, especially in the shady bits. He pulls out his phone to do some googling, at least to figure out what type they’ve got. 

There’s a long, slow whistle and Niall turns slowly, making sure he’ll be ready in case it’s a particularly rude journalist or something. Instead he’s greeted by a pair of familiar wide, brown eyes – and a head, naturally – peeking over the side fence, disappearing momentarily as Zayn loses his balance on the frame, tipping backwards with a yelp.

“Oh!” is all Niall manages, tucking his phone away before striding over to yank the gate open. Zayn’s half-sitting on a suitcase and a backpack where he’s obviously tripped backwards, his legs all gangly and noodley looking and his fringe all messy in his eyes.

“Hi,” Zayn says, running a hand through his hair, and Niall feels helpless and out of his depth again but in the best, best, best possible way as he offers him his hand and hauls him up again.

“So I guess I, uh, I’m taking you up on your offer,” Zayn says, helping Niall drag suitcase up the stairs inside. Zayn’s visited once or twice, but he still laughs and points at the photos of chubby baby Niall before turning and saying, a little more seriously, “I probably should have called from the airport or something.”

Niall holds his lips between his teeth to stop from laughing, or smiling, because _Zayn_. He doesn’t really want to ask too many questions;  Zayn seemed a little brittle, bright and cheerful but on edge.   “I could’ve come picked you up, yeah. But it’s fine. You want the guest room, or mum’s? Guest room’s pretty small, but.”

Zayn stops at the landing and crinkles his nose. “Not that I don’t fancy your mum, but sleeping in her bed is a bit-”

“Alright! Alright,” Niall laughs, and pushes Zayn in the direction of the guest room instead.  “You keen for lunch? We can head out for something.”

“I would _love_ some lunch,” Zayn says, sounding more satisfied than he has any right to, like the cat that’s just got the canary.

 

 

***

It’s a bit weird having Zayn around, if Niall’s honest.  There’s still that strange, electric hum underneath everything now, and he’s gotten pretty used to being alone around here. Then again, he’s never felt like he needed to try too hard impress Zayn or anything, so it’s not too bad. They get kebabs down the road, Zayn making fun of his order until Niall has to shove a pickle down his collar to shut him up, and when they get back the first thing Zayn does is pass out on the couch, half-snoring before Niall’s even finished unpacking the dishwasher.  Niall assumes he’s here for a break, so he probably needs the sleep, and Niall doesn’t want to try and move him or wake him up. Zayn had always been small – never petite, though, Zayn would have killed him if he said that, and called him a posh wanker anyhow – but all curled up in his jeans and flannels he looks even tinier. Niall keeps himself busy, sets up the guest room properly with clean sheets and opens the windows. There’s a car parked across the road that wasn’t there before lunch, and a man leaning against it with a camera and a coffee, and Niall shakes his head. Someone must have put the call out when they were grabbing the kebabs. Zayn’s visit was going to be on the internet pretty soon. Niall could deal with that. Hopefully Zayn could too.

Niall kills some time on the computer, responds to some emails and resists the urge to check his twitter mentions. He texts Harry, letting him, and therefore the others, know that Zayn had dropped in. Harry asks _How long he planning to stay?_ And Niall has no idea, really, except that he wants it to be a decent long time. _Dunno he’s asleep as usual haha,_ he replies, and when Harry texts back _lol give sleeping beauty a kiss from me_ he pretends like that’s not a pretty decent sounding idea.

 

 

***

Zayn finally wakes up around sunset, stumbling into the kitchen looking ruffled and confused.

“Oh,” he manages, face lighting up a little when he finally spots Niall eating cereal a little guiltily over the sink.

“Good sleep then?” Niall manages around a mouthful, and Zayn pulls another face before yawning.

“Alright. Feel weird though,” he adds, yawning again. He scrubs his hand over his face, blinking, and Niall wants to wave him off back to bed again.

“How’d you feel about some fifa and take-away?” Niall hedges, and Zayn looks like he’s won the lottery.

“Here I was worrying you’d make me go out somewhere and I’d actually have to shower,” he says, flopping into one of the kitchen chairs, resting his chin on his folded arms and looking up at Niall. “Seriously, though. Thanks. For having me here. And. You know.”

Niall just shrugs. It feels like they’re on the edge of something here, some big cliff they’re looking down over. Niall’s never really been scared of heights, but he’s feeling it now, watching Zayn watching him. His stomach is dropping and swooping funnily, and it’s scary in a way that he hasn’t felt for years, but – but at least they’re standing on that edge together.

 “Happy to have you any time,” he says, and it comes out a little funny, a little too important, but Zayn just gives the slow, small smile that means he’s happy without really thinking about it.

 

 

***

Zayn sleeps in a lot, drinks a lot of tea, burns his way through a couple of novels he’s been meaning to get to. Niall feels like a bit of a crap host, to be honest, but Zayn seems entirely content to sit and doodle in his sketchbook while Niall fucks around on his guitar, or get a little more drunk than they really ought to out on the patio at night, talking studio gossip and the new label prodigies. Niall gets used to the constant soundtrack of Zayn humming, of Zayn singing under his breath, of Zayn tapping a rhythm against the kitchen table. He’ll find himself singing snatches of lines here and there, and then Zayn will be singing them an hour later, until it becomes a competition to see who can get as many songs as possible stuck in the other’s head. Zayn wins, mostly, uses 90’s r&b against Niall until he finds himself muttering _ride it, my pony, my saddle's waiting, come and jump on it_ , as he plants the new flowerbeds.

Zayn doesn’t talk about his sudden, expected holiday, and Niall doesn’t push it, just leans against Zayn when they’re watching tv and gives him extra helpings with dinner. 

When Zayn turns up at his bedroom door one night near two am with a whispered, “Hey, Nialler,” Niall doesn’t question it, just blinks groggily and mutters a “don’t steal the duvet or kick, alright,” because his old childhood bed is only a king single and they’re both used to more space in their beds. Zayn tucks himself in against Niall’s chest, and it’s a little awkward with Zayn being taller, and a little too warm, and Zayn’s shoulder blades keep poking him in the chest. He can’t help notice that Zayn smells clean and cottony, suddenly so close up, like the fresh sheets but a lot like his cologne, too. Niall falls into the deep, dreamless sleep where he knows that he’s where he should be and that he’s entirely comfortable.

The next day Niall drags Zayn out to the local park with the adjoining nursery, mainly to get some new lawn but also because Zayn was starting to get funny and restless. Slobbing around all day was well and good, but sometimes Zayn needed to get out of his own head. The sky’s a clear, aching blue, the sort that goes with proper windy weather and the smell of fresh grass. Niall deliberately chooses the long route from the carpark, and they huff and puff through the green lawns to get to the store, Zayn dragging his feet and hanging off Niall.

“Look, this rose garden is like, world famous or something,” Niall tries, but Zayn just kicks at a bit of woodchip.

“Don’t care. Roses are stupid. Gardens are stupid,” he says, entirely at odds with how delighted he looks, scrunching his face up and running his hand over the lavender bushes. He’s always enjoyed a good whinge, and by the time they arrive – “tulips are stupid, ducks are stupid, I fucking hate lakes” – they’re both grinning ear to ear.

Niall grabs a trolley, gets going, and Zayn doesn’t stop to look, just trails behind and makes judgemental noises when Niall picks things up. He hadn’t intended to buy much, but it becomes a game – Niall goes for a punnet of wild garlic, only for Zayn to give a _bleurgh_ until he picks up the strawberries instead.

 “You’re completely obsessed,” Zayn says drily, like he’s a concerned doctor, “You’re going to replace me with a tomato plant or something.”

“Now there’s an idea,” Niall mumbles, poking around in the seedlings. “Maybe I should’ve thought about a veggie patch.” Zayn throws his hands in the air and rolls his eyes, like he’s never heard anything as frustrating as a bit of horticultural enthusiasm.

Niall makes Zayn push the trolley, until he manages to lose him in the pottery section. When he finds him again he’s picking through the flower trays, and when Niall coughs and says “Er-” Zayn spins and holds a little potted pansy up.

“Suit me?” and he’s grinning, like he’s come up with the greatest joke in the world, and Niall hides his face in his hand when he laughs.

“Yeah, yeah, alright, purple is definitely your colour,” he says as he puts the pot in the trolley, aiming for sarcastic but mostly just coming out stupid and fond.  Zayn doesn’t whine again, after that, not even when Niall spends like half an hour talking with a sales assistant about grass. Instead he just leans an elbow against the trolley, hooking his finger through one of Niall’s belt-loops. When they both halt and turn and look at him he just shrugs easily, throwing his arm over Niall’s shoulder and saying, “So like, doesn’t grass need to be planted specially? Like in a particular season?” and he won’t make eye contact with Niall, just stares and nods seriously along to what the sales assistant is saying, smile playing across his face.

When they get back Niall starts unpacking, putting things in the shed and setting up for the work he’ll have to do tomorrow. He puts Zayn’s little pansy on the windowsill so they can see it from the kitchen. When he makes it inside the kettle’s on and Zayn’s rummaging around in the cupboards.

“I haven’t done anything in days,” Zayn says, but he doesn’t really sound too guilty about it. “Let me cook dinner, yeah?”

So Niall does,  goes outside and calls Louis for the first time in ages and neither of them really talk about _it_ , about the thing they know is standing in Niall’s kitchen, bigger than all five of them maybe, but when Louis hangs up he says _take care_ , and Niall nods, even though he can’t see it. _Will do._

They don’t use the dining room, just sit at the kitchen table like they’re used to, but this feels a little different anyway. Zayn’s made one of his old specialities, one of the rice dishes his dad taught him and that Niall _adores_. He sighs happily when the plate lands in front of him, and Zayn gives that tiny, amused _tch_ against the back of his teeth.

 “My favourite. Are you wooing me?” Niall says, casually, and when there’s no response he looks up to see Zayn twitching down at him. Niall feels his face crunch up into a stupid grin. He can’t help it. Zayn just pokes his tongue out at him and sits down opposite him, taking a long pull of his beer.

 

 

***

Niall gets up early, groans and hits his alarm. It’s well into spring now, but there’s still the occasional cold snap and it’s chilly in the mornings, crisp with dew and the smell of grass. He needs to water the garden before it heats up, and he doesn’t mind the cold so much. He potters around the kitchen, is in the middle of chewing his toast and brewing his tea when he hears feet on the stairs. Zayn’s only got his thin pyjama shirt on, and his arms are folded across his chest to try and stop the shivers.

“Sorry,” Niall says. “Haven’t got the heating on, it’ll warm up soon. Gonna water the garden.”  It’s half-an-invitation, and Zayn, scruffy and half-asleep, mumbles a “gimme a sec.”

Zayn sits on one of the chairs on the patio, bundled in his flannel and one of Niall’s jumpers. He’s still squinty and grumbly, and when Niall comes back from hooking the hose up, he mumbles a “would kill for a cig right now.”

“Right,” Niall says, half-laughing, because Zayn had finally officially quit over two years ago. He had been pretty good, mostly, just those moments where Niall could see the thought snap into his head, and then he’d sigh pointedly and find more gum to chew. Mostly they just ignored him, but Niall’s always been a sucker for Zayn’s puppy-dog eyes, and he deserved a little spoiling today at least. He juggles the hose to rummage in his back pocket and dig out the crumpled but semi-fresh half pack and lighter he’d already got from their hiding place above his wardrobe. 

“Bit predictable, eh,” Zayn says as he catches them with his sleepy half-smile. Niall goes and waters the back of the garden for something to do when Zayn lights up, something to distract him and make him feel a little less tilted. Zayn being all mundane and extremely hot tended to mess with his centre of gravity.

He puts the hose back and goes to take a seat next to Zayn, but instead he catches his wrist, and says easy as anything, “here, give this a try,” as he pulls Niall in for a kiss.

His first thought is _finally._

His second thought isn’t anything definite, not really words, just his hand on Zayn’s jaw and his teeth on Zayn’s bottom lip and the smell of cigarette smoke and Zayn’s cologne, and with his eyes closed they could be seventeen and still in high school or superstars on top of the fucking world, but they’re here, which is somehow all of it, all these parts finally together.

Zayn pulls down on his shirt, gets his fingers in his belt-loops and pulls him closer between his knees. Niall props himself up on the back of the chair, but he can’t – he can’t- he pulls away, laughs into Zayn’s mess of a hairdo as Zayn huffs, nonplussed.

“We’ve got some catching up to do,” Zayn says, mouth hovering at his neck, and when Niall leans back to look at him properly, there’s a serious little frown between his eyebrows.

Niall pokes his forehead. “Don’t. We’ve got plenty of time.” God, they would have made such a mess of things if this had happened earlier. “Count your blessings, mate,” and Zayn grins at him in response, cheeky and wicked as he drags his eyes up from his hands on Niall’s hips, all the way up to where the tips of Niall’s ears are going red.

“Trust me, I am.”

Niall kisses him again, half to shut him up and half just for the feel of it. It’s not so different to what he’s used to – sure, there’s stubble against his hand and his face, but that seems less important than the fact that it’s _Zayn._ When he finally pushes Niall back and stands, well, that’s not so different either; it’s not like Niall’s that tall, and he’s kissed plenty of girls in heels. Having to crane his neck a little doesn’t really compare to the feel of Zayn’s hand at his back, familiar and yet so new, dangerous and exciting.  It’s been ages since he’s kissed someone like this, shivery and hyper-aware of the weird details. Zayn gets his fingers up under Niall’s shirt and he jerks away, feeling it deep in his gut.

“Well,” he manages, running a hand through his hair. “Well.”

Zayn smiles, slow and a little predatory as he takes Niall’s hand and pulls him inside, gardening pursuits long forgotten.

 

 

***

After that, it’s like Zayn just can’t _stop_ – it’s like he wants to cross everything off the list, wide-eyed and eager. It’s hilariously unsexy, most of the time, him surprising Niall when he’s got a mouthful of breakfast (“….Bit eggy,” Zayn says, a funny look on his face before he rinses his mouth out with tea), or waking him up with morning breath, or pulling away to poke at the hickey on Niall’s neck like a doctor or nurse or something, like he’s judging it (Niall squirms and giggles, feeling ticklish and oddly coy; Zayn squints closer and murmurs a “Good eight or so out of ten, that one,” and Niall says “oh no, surely it’s at least a nine,” before Zayn rolls his eyes and tickles at his sides again, making him laugh properly). Sometimes though, Niall will hear footsteps and turn and there’s Zayn, pushing him up against his bedroom desk, his mouth close and hot near his ear, pressing dry against his cheek before ducking away again, and Niall will shiver with the spike of _want_.  Or when he’s concentrating on reading his emails from the financial planner, and Zayn’s just sort of leaning next to him on the couch reading. Suddenly Niall will catch on to the slow, warm press of Zayn’s face against Niall’s shoulder, gently humming, and Niall will freeze before he even realises it, as Zayn slides his mouth up the tendons of his neck, the soft flesh under his jaw, the corner of his mouth. When Niall finally, finally breathes again and pushes forward to kiss him, wet and proper and a little bit too sloppy, it’s with a hot, honey-slow heat that’s unfairly frustrating, climbing right up through Niall’s chest.

For his part, Niall finds his hands wandering; he’d always been cuddly, or whatever, but now he knows he’s not the only one that wants this, and Zayn will raise his eyebrows and it’s not a _fuck off then_ , it’s a _How close to my junk are you really gonna put your hand?_ The whole thing feels silly, like they’re shy virgins or something all over again, but there’s something fun about touching for touching sakes, not on the way to anything; just learning the way to make Zayn yelp with surprise or instead go still, jaw clenched. And, of course, there’s something really, really hot about sitting in their usual booth at the pub and acting like he doesn’t have his hand slowly, slowly, slowly creeping  up the inseam of Zayn’s jeans to rest right on Zayn’s dick. Judging by Zayn’s stiffy, it’s pretty mutual.

Neither of them seem too worried about the whole looming _sex_ thing; it’s frustrating as hell, yeah, but Niall’s easy ‘bout it, and when Zayn rolls off him and lies there taking deep, shuddery breaths instead of going for Niall’s fly, well. No rush.  He’s dealt with blueballs before and he’ll deal with it now, if that’s what it takes, although he’s starting to worry about just how much one person can whack off in the shower without it becoming completely shameful.

At least until it stops being quite so looming and becomes much more real, when one morning where Zayn gets a call, and Niall can tell instantly that something’s wrong. He watches as Zayn paces the tiny upstairs landing, half prowling and half caged in looking, and Niall does his best not to eavesdrop, just puts the kettle on and waits.

He hears Zayn give a final snappish answer before he’s down the stairs again, taking them two at a time and he’s right in front of Niall quicker than he can realise, hands on either side of his face and everything close and warm but – but his mouth, still, is gentle, just a soft kiss to the bow of Niall’s lips.

“Something up, then,” Niall says, trying not to be too flippant, and Zayn rests his forehead against his when he sighs.

“Problems with the schedule. Want me to come in for some stuff.  Won’t,” Zayn says shortly, dropping his hands to wrap them around Niall’s waist. “Can we. I know, not the greatest timing, but can we-” and then his brain seems to catch up with his mouth, because he goes red and bites his lip.

“Finally get off?” Niall says, unable to stop himself smiling, feeling all fuzzy and warm in his gut despite how tense Zayn still is. It must be the fright, the reminder that despite how it feels, they don’t have all the time in the world.

Zayn does relax a little at that though, sags even closer to Niall. “Yeah, yeah. That one, right.”

They end up on Niall’s bed – he damps down that feeling of weirdness, being in his own childhood room, with the tacky posters and the high school textbooks he still hadn’t got around to chucking out.  Zayn pushes him back from the edge of the bed, kisses him down until he’s lying properly and Zayn can sit back. He straddles Niall and looks down, careful and gentle, before he tickles right at the sensitive spot near Niall’s hip that has him gasping and digging his fingers into Zayn’s thighs as he tries to breathe and laugh at the same time. The heavy, almost sickly anticipation building at the back of his throat loosens a little, and Niall fits his fingers under the waistband of Zayn’s jeans.

“How we gonna do this then?” he says, trying to stay casual, but Zayn just leans down to pop a kiss on his nose, still with that smile quirked in the corner of his mouth. “I, uh. Have condoms. But. You clean?” Niall asks, biting the bullet and continuing with a, “I haven’t got laid since last test, so.”

Zayn grins at him, about to tease, and Niall pulls a face until he relents. “Yeah yeah, same, not many opportunities when I’m trying to record an album,” Zayn says, like he didn’t have millions of eager and willing participants happy to work with his busy schedule.

He rubs his nose against the side of Niall’s face, leans back to murmur a, “Let’s just. Go with the flow, see how the pancake flips, you dig?” with a wink, and Niall can’t help snorting, wiggling a little to settle Zayn’s weight against him better and tighten his fingers into the soft skin of his hip. Zayn stops laughing.

“Right,” Niall says, and he feels the shift in the way Zayn kisses him this time, hands moving across his cheek, his chest, his waist. Zayn leans back to shuck his own shirt and then tugs at Niall’s; he loses his and leans up and forward, mouth at Zayn’s ribs, over the spots he’s learnt are the most sensitive. He presses the edge of his teeth in, gentle but full of intent, and Zayn gives a quiet, “oh.”

This time when he shifts Zayn gives a quiet grunt and shifts back too, gets better leverage to suck at the junction of Niall’s jaw, licks in at his teeth like he knows Niall likes, inhales sharp when Niall gets his fingers dug in at the base of his neck. Such a shame that his hair was too short for proper pulling, Niall thinks as he scratches absent-mindedly.

They’ve done this far easy, but the knowledge of what’s to come – Niall smiles against Zayn’s mouth at his own pun – makes it headier, makes him arch up when Zayn palms him through his jeans.

“Off with these, then,” Zayn says lightly, and they choose to stay stuck close, trying to shuffle out of their pants without falling off the bed rather than sitting up like they probably should. The elbow in the gut is worth it for the heat seeping through Niall, the closeness,  Zayn’s knobbly ankles against his as he sprawls across him, kicking himself free of his underwear.

Getting his dick out turns to be much less awkward than expected, really.  Zayn hums and presses their hips together, bracing his arms near Niall’s head, and Niall leans his hands on his ribcage and watches his face.

“Alright?” he asks, wobbly before he clears his throat, and he can already feel the flush creeping across his chest, up his neck, because _skinonskindickondick_ and god how had he gone all these years without trying this.  Zayn nods down at him, chewing hard on his lip, and when Niall leans up to press a kiss against the tattoo on his collarbone he inhales sharply again, closes his eyes.

They go back to kissing, slow, until they’re moving without realising, and Zayn bites Niall’s lip harder than he probably should, and grunts out a _“yeah”_ that Niall would have laughed at any other time, but it just makes him dig his fingers into Zayn’s back and push _up_ , strung tight like a livewire, searching, Zayn’s answering grind pushing a _“f-fuck”_ out of his lungs.

It’s not enough, he can’t get enough – and Zayn, wonderful Zayn, knows. He leans to the side, reaches down and tugs Niall off, fast and strong. Niall’s caught between pressing his face against Zayn’s neck and curling in closer against him, or watching Zayn’s hand, the blur of his tattoos. In the end he gets neither, because apparently Zayn’s still on that trying-everything-out kick, and he shimmies down to look up at Niall from _right_ next to his dick, only a moment to collect himself before Zayn’s mouth is on him.

He manages a, “What- wh-I’m, _Zayn_ , I’m gonna,” and Zayn shoves  his hips down, and _fuck_ , his wiry strength has never been hotter, which is his last thought before he comes, juddering under Zayn’s hands.

Zayn, to his credit, doesn’t even gag, just makes an awful face, licking at his teeth. “Really not as appealing as I thought it would be, if ’m honest,” he says, kneeling back. Niall hides his face in his hands and laughs.

Zayn just wiggles up and flops across him again, leaning his chin on his forearm across Niall’s chest. Niall is thankful for the moment to recover, even if Zayn’s hard-on is insistent against his thigh.

“No rush,” Zayn says, blinking up at him wide-eyed, and Niall sticks his tongue out.

“Get off me, you lump,” he says, trying to wiggle out from underneath, and Zayn laughs and relents, leaning out of the way for Niall to sit on the edge of the bed. Zayn makes a show of getting comfortable in the middle, fluffing his pillow and everything, and Niall watches over his shoulder and tries not to feel too insanely fond.

“Well?” Zayn says, wiggling his eyebrows, and Niall hums before leaning over to kiss him, chaste and gentle.

Zayn chases him when he pulls back, gets his hand on the back of his neck, and when he licks into Niall’s mouth it’s a little forceful and very hot. Niall gives in, moves so he’s properly straddling Zayn’s thighs, kneeling up for leverage. When he gets his hand around Zayn’s dick Zayn wraps his fingers around his bicep, digging in and biting down on Niall’s lip.

“This is going to get messy,” Niall warns, shimmying down, and he’s right.

He has no real idea what he’s doing, just tries to think of the things that work for him, and there’s so much spit _everywhere_. He keeps his hand on the base of Zayn’s dick, pulls off to catch his breath and jerk him off as he looks up. He expects to see Zayn watching, maybe ready to laugh at him, but instead he’s staring up at the ceiling, biting down on the flesh of his wrist. When Niall goes back to sucking him off Zayn makes a noise at the back of his throat, gives a full body jerk as he runs his hands through Niall’s hair. Niall presses the fingers of his free hand into the join of Zayn’s hips and thigh and has to pull back suddenly to avoid a dick fully down his throat.

Zayn slides his hand down and presses his thumb into the side of Niall’s face, grunts something indistinct. He digs his fingers into Niall’s jaw, pulling him up and off as he comes across his stomach, biting his lip hard.

“Yay, orgasms,” Niall manages weakly, holding his hand up for a fist-bump, and Zayn blinks at him, wide-eyed and stunned before laughing and bumping knuckles. 

“Gimme those tissues,” Zayn says, not moving, and when Niall clambers off for the box he closes his eyes, only opens them again when Niall cleans him up and chucks the mess into his bin.

“Swoosh, all net,” he mutters, and Zayn’s huffing out a laugh and pulling him down, settling him against his side. Niall tangles his leg in Zayn’s and throws his arm over his chest. They probably look completely ridiculous and octopus-like, but he’s warm and still got fuzzy-sex-brain, and Zayn’s already breathing deep and slow. Even though it’s almost the middle of the day it’s easy to drift off in the sunny heat of the room.

 

 

***

When he wakes up his stomach is grumbling and he’s alone in the bed, but he hears Zayn laugh at the noise coming from his gut, so he mustn’t be far.  The door to his bedroom opens then, and Zayn enters with a big bowl of cereal and two spoons.

“Sorry,” he says, “I couldn’t really be bothered to make sandwiches or anything.”

Niall just shrugs and smiles a silent _“’s fine”_ as he finds his underwear and pulls them on – Zayn’s already wearing his, but not anything else, thankfully – and gives a heartfelt thanks at the offered spoon.

Niall’s glad he didn’t open his curtains this morning. The sun still gets through, but they don’t really have to worry about anyone seeing in, which he’s incredibly grateful for when Zayn hands him the bowl to stand and stretch out properly. It’s not like his room is in proper view from the street, but it’s one less worry.

Zayn stays standing but leans in and gets some cereal – he’ll have to be quick if he wants to get much before Niall finishes it – and then starts talking, like they’re already mid-conversation.

 “I needed a break, you know?” and he’s hesitant sounding, like he’s waiting for Niall to ask what on earth he’s talking about. Niall had been expecting it though, and nods encouragingly around his spoon of cornflakes.

“It was easier to ignore when we were all racing ahead together, but by myself…. Everything was going a hundred miles a minute and I realised how _easy_ it was, to just keep running along to the next thing and not really think. I needed to get my head screwed on properly. And… there were important things I needed to do,” Zayn says, waggling his eyebrows at Niall to make sure he gets the innuendo, and Niall grins – “so I just. Put the brakes on, I guess.”

Niall nods again, putting the bowl down on his bedside table.  Zayn looks relieved, like he’s been waiting to get it out for a while, and he looks to Niall for approval, too.

“I’m glad,” Niall says truthfully. “You deserve the rest.  And- and this-” he gestures between them, and halts. He’s never been brilliant with words, mostly counts on everyone else to understand what he’s talking about. “ – I’m – I’m really glad,” he repeats, feeling stupid, “understatement of the century, to be honest.”

Zayn smiles at him, soft and crooked, and Niall stands to kiss him. It’s gentle and pretty tame, really, but it feels important, just maybe in a different way to other things. It tastes a little too much of milky cereal, but Niall can roll with it.

“If this is A Thing-” Zayn begins carefully, and Niall interrupts with a “I want it to be A Thing!” that leads to Zayn getting side-tracked and having to kiss him again, before he finally continues – “if this is a thing, there’s going to be a lot of things to sort out.”

Niall knows what he’s talking about. The whole maybe-possibly-coming-out-or-at-least-not-denying-it thing would probably have to be reassessed, and they’re going to have to figure out how to deal with the press eventually. How to even deal with management. “Whatever’s easiest,” he says, looping his arms around Zayn’s back. “You’re the one doing the interviews now, anyway.  I’m chill to deal with stuff, yeah?” which isn’t much of a sentence, but it seems to be what Zayn needs to hear.  “And we can flip a coin for who gets to tell the lads.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Zayn says, laughing and leaning his against him. “You can have the honours, please.”

 

 

***

Niall knows that they’ll run out of time, that eventually Zayn will have to go back to London and then tour and life will kick in again. He tries to savour it and resist the urge to do a million things at once – tries to make sure that it’s not all X rated, either. He drives them out to one of the forests, and this time Zayn doesn’t complain about all the nature and stuff.  It’s a nice area, with little trails for them to follow, and it’s easy to fall into a rhythm amongst the trees, just enjoying the smell of damp earth and the squelch underneath his old sneakers, the nonsense tune Zayn’s sketching out with lots of _na na na_ s and _ummm, yeah_ s.

“We can go play golf tomorrow if you want,” Zayn says out of nowhere, when they reach the top of the trail. It’s a nice secluded little corner, no one else around, just a meandering grassy area bright with sun.

“What? You hate golf,” Niall says, laughing and rummaging in his backpack for the sandwiches he’d brought.

“I hate getting my shoes dirty, too,” Zayn says, toeing at Niall’s own shoes, and when he looks down Zayn’s chucks are grimy and muddy. “But there’s something to be said for trying new things.”

He grins at Niall, all quiet and sweet, and Niall stills, sandwiches forgotten. “You’d _play sport_ for me?”

“Shutup,” Zayn says, going red and pushing him before huffing off to find a picnic table for them.

“You totally would! Oh my god! Harry is going to die!” Niall shouts after him, swinging his bag back onto his back.

“You can’t tell him! Or Louis,” Zayn shouts back from behind some trees. “Especially Louis. I’ve found a very large stick and I’m not afraid to use it.”

It turns out the very large stick is actually a handful of leaves, which Zayn shoves very effectively down the back of Niall’s shirt.  It’s hard to retaliate when he’s cackling and still trying to get twigs out of his shirt, but he does his best to sneakily follow Zayn to where he’s legged it round some trees. He’s standing quietly behind a tree, doesn’t seem to have realised that Niall’s approaching, and when he jumps around the front Zayn just jerks back into the bark and looks at him, wide-eyed and horrified.

“Gotcha!” Niall crows, and gets his own handful down the front of Zayn’s tee. He gives him a kiss on the cheek, just to be particularly obnoxious.

“Get back here, Horan!” is all he hears, and he’s got a bright, blurred moment of Zayn under the shadows of the tree, eyes glinting and scruffy round the edges, the quirk in the corner of his smile, and then he’s running across the clearing as fast as he can, Zayn hot on his heels.

 

 

***

They don’t share a bed  - can’t, practically speaking, and they’ve had to get pretty creative if they want uncramped sex – and the space is good for them, anyway. But Zayn’s been here over two weeks, now, and Niall is starting to feel the countdown in the way Zayn knocks their feet together over breakfast, how he’ll look up at Niall when he ducks out to go grocery shopping.

When he turns the tv off that night he grabs a hold of Zayn’s hand, kisses him and says, “I gotta shower, but I’ll see you upstairs in a bit?” and Zayn seems to understand the unspoken question. When he gets out of the shower and returns to his room Zayn’s already in his bed, sleepy eyed and bundled up in the duvet.

The sight of him – his five o’clock shadow, his dark hair stark against the pillow – hurts Niall’s chest a little. At least snuggling down beside him in his boxer-briefs helps relieve some of that. They’re both too tired for much more than a lazy make out, and anyway, Niall was still recovering from the blowjob Zayn had given him when they’d pulled over on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere after lunch. Niall’s never too tired for making Zayn come, though, so he jerks him off and grins at the quiet sigh he presses into Niall’s mouth.  One day he’ll have to figure out how to tell Zayn to clean himself up, but he’s happy enough to do it tonight if he gets to run his fingers over the tattoos on his hip, watch the goosebumps that follow until Zayn drags him back up.

“Goodnight,” Zayn says, yawning and reaching for the lamp, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, chest against Niall’s back, tucking his arm around his side.  Zayn murmurs something, then, and Niall’s heard enough Urdu to recognise the language if not the words, and the way that it sounds in Zayn’s mouth does something funny to him. Niall whispers back a “You too,” and feels something settle inside him, calm and right.

 

 

***

On Sunday Niall lets Zayn pick a movie out for the night; Niall isn’t really a cinema nut or anything, and Zayn always picks cool things, weird things he never would have got around to seeing otherwise. Half the fun is Zayn explaining how he found it, or the best parts to look out for, or how he’s completely embarrassed to even be suggesting whatever tacky movie it is that time, and _you have to swear not to tell Liam, okay, pinky promise, ever since he started filming he keeps going all funny about documentaries at me_.  Tonight is a spaghetti western, some old Clint Eastwood that’s easy to zone out in front of. Niall didn’t mind the german horror flick last time, but no matter Zayn’s half-drunk critical analysis, it wasn’t conducive to good sleep.

“Tour kicks off in two months,” Zayn says, yawning and stretching out across Niall’s lap. Niall manages to hold his beer up and out of the way just in time; a faceful of lager would probably ruin the moment.  “And we start rehearsal in a week or two.”

“Or two?” Niall says, absent-mindedly playing with the hem of Zayn’s shirt.

“I keep pushing it back,” Zayn mumbles. “I know I’ll regret it once we actually start prep, but-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Niall likes having Zayn here, but it was always going to have to end sometime. He knew that, of course, was mostly waiting to hear the dates from Zayn, but it’s still weirdly disappointing. He shrugs.

“Mum will want her house back, eventually. The neighbour’s probably missing me already,” he says, grinning, and Zayn smiles without looking up. It was a well-known fact that the woman in the apartment next door to Niall was entirely taken with him; she was Irish too, and made him a wicked black pudding every Christmas.

“Mmmmm,” Zayn hums a little unsure, like there’s something still bothering him. Niall should probably feel a little worried, considering he’s basically offered to move back to London with Zayn, but he never officially moved back to Mullingar anyway, so maybe it’s not that big of a deal. “Once I go on tour though, I’ll barely get to see you. Or anyone,” and his voice gets that tight whispery sound to it, like he’s thinking very hard about something and not liking what’s running through his mind.

Niall shrugs. “We’ll visit when dates line up, you’ll get days off. We’ll all make it work,” he says, but Zayn sits up. He’s frowning, all serious-like, so Niall damps down the urge to laugh at how his hair’s sticking up all over the place.

“I think,” he says, turning towards the tv and away from Niall, “that I’m worried I’m not going to miss you as much as I should.”

“What?”

“I mean,” and this time he turns to Niall, “like, what if it’s too much fun? I don’t _want_ to not be wanting you four there, and like, somewhere along the line I felt myself, I think I felt myself stop missing everyone so crazy, and it was awful, because I wanted to, I think, because I should have, right? And then the couple of performances so far have been – honestly, they’ve been _fun_ , and I feel so horrible when-”

Niall laughs. “You’re meant to enjoy it, you big idiot. It’s what you love. I mean, I don’t think any of us have even miss you one bit, ever,” he says, giving a half-twist smile so Zayn knows he’s being sarcastic, “and we’re not going to be bitter or anything.” Maybe it’s a little dishonest, considering Niall _had_ been bitter, but it had been about the break as a whole, not really about Zayn going solo. It was himself he needed to sort out; it was always going to be a problem, eventually, and the whole thing just kicked off the process.

Zayn frowns, and leans over with his elbows on his knees, eyebrows knitted with intent. He’s so focused, like it’s incredibly important for Niall to understand: “I love it, but I hate it, you know? I hate the tiredness and the stress and the fuckin’ – the crazy disorganisation, the constant running around and being twenty minutes late for everything. I hate that the paps will always be after me, even on my days off. But, you know, you get on the stage, and I can’t imagine doing anything else with my life,” Zayn says, and the smile that grows across his face is like – it’s like it’s subconscious, a muscle memory of how he feels when he’s performing.  Niall has never wanted to kiss someone more in his life, which, surprisingly, isn’t really that uncommon. Zayn tends to make him feel that way.

“But,” and this time Zayn’s smile fades, looking at Niall for reassurance, “I want to do it with you four. With you.”

Niall gets it, because that’s what he’d thought too, but he’s beginning to realise that maybe the hiatus is better for them than he’d thought. Before the break they’d been too crowded and tangled, ingrown amongst their now-too-small mould, and finally they were breathing fresh air, seeing some sunlight.

“Liam can’t,” Niall says, “or at least won’t be able to after a couple of years. And Harry’s looking at another feature film, if this one does well, and I think Louis has had a ball, honestly, not having to be switched on all the time. You know?” and Zayn nods. “I mean, I don’t think we’re done yet, but the breather’s been good for everyone. It’s probably a good sign if you’ve stopped being miserable without us, really,” he says, verging on a little sarcastic, and he can’t stop the smile at Zayn’s expense. Zayn rubs a hand over his face, and he still looks unsure, but there’s that glimmer, that sign that he’s starting to believe Niall, starting to believe that he doesn’t have to worry so much.

“And anyway,” Niall manages to continue, “I’ve always wanted to try the groupie lifestyle,” he nods seriously, biting back the smile, before Zayn leans into him and kisses him. “Seriously-” Niall tries to get out – “you don’t – you’re not in _mourning_ or – or any _thing,_ we’re f-f _-fine_ ” he manages, Zayn nipping down his neck and getting cold hands on his hipbones. Zayn pushes him solidly down against the lounge cushion, knobby knees on either side of his hips and Niall can’t say anything at all, and then Zayn’s got his hands running up under Niall’s shirt and Niall isn’t thinking anymore, either.

 

 

***

When Niall’s mum gets back she looks like she’s seen a ghost.

“What have you _done_?” she says, staring at the garden, and Niall slings an arm over her shoulder. She'd seen it in progress, of course, but even he had to admit the final product was impressive to look at. 

“What, don’t like it?” he says easily, and she hits him in the chest as thanks.

It's pretty pituresque - nice lawn, neat hedges and a couple of shrubs and saplings all new and green, lush vines across one of the side fences. The flower beds are in bloom, rambling and colourful, and the old garden gnomes still have their place. It’s quiet and peaceful, and he’s proud of himself.  

When he goes home he takes the pansy with him, cradled carefully in a plastic bag until he can set it on the coffee table that gets the most sunlight in his apartment. It’s strange being back in the apartment after so long, but it’s nice, too, to return to things he’s left behind and to lose some of the things he didn’t need, leave _those_ things behind in Ireland instead. 

 

 

***

Niall ends up joining Zayn in Germany. It’s only a few days – the rest arrive the next morning, and they all fly out when Zayn does – but they’ve already started the logistics plan for Niall to come over for the American leg, which should be good fun. And anyway, he’s got Zayn to himself for the rest of the night. So.

“You’re a rubbish groupie,” Zayn greets him with, trying to lock his dressing room door and pull Niall over all at once, buzzed and triumphant and a little bit dazzling. Christ, Niall’s missed him. “You skipped out on the city of _love_ , for god’s sakes.”

 “Can this be the city of blowjobs, then?” Niall says, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Zayn’s trousers meaningfully, and Niall, for all their years of touring together, can’t think of a time where Zayn’s managed to get out of his stage outfit faster.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit welcomed, thankyou for your time :)


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